Smoke and Philosophy
by Hekate1308
Summary: DI Greg Lestrade knew exactly where to look for Sherlock when John called. Then again, he had known the consulting detective longer. Sherlock Holmes and DI Greg Lestrade friendship, Post-Reunion.


**Author's note: Like I said: this is me taking a break, folks. Hope you all notice.**

**Anyway, I thought, after what I'd done in one of my more recent fics, that it's time for Sherlock and Lestrade bromance. Because these two are adorable.**

**I don't own anything, and please review.**

DI Greg Lestrade had an idea where he'd find Sherlock when John called him sounding anxious. And, to be honest, the call didn't come unexpectedly. In fact, he'd have been surprised if today of all days, after the case they'd had, Sherlock hadn't decided to disappear for a while. He might not know the consulting detective better than John, but he had known him longer.

"He just left, Greg, without a word – and he's been so silent, the whole case, and you know how strange that is..."

"I know, John, I know, don't worry" he assured him. "I'll find him; I already have a hunch where he might be." Then he remembered something. "Can you make sure Mycroft gives us time?"

John sighed, apparently the elder Holmes had already been in touch, no surprise there either.

"I will do my best, but you know how Mycroft is on "danger nights" – "

"You really think he's only an interfering, annoying sod on nights like this?"

John chuckled. "Well, no, but he tends to be more annoying. If that's possible."

"I know how you feel" Greg replied – he could remember danger nights before John very well, when he'd been called in the middle of the night and had to leave his bed and his now ex-wife in order to find Sherlock in the middle of the night at some street corner. Thinking about it now –

These nights might well have been the first in a long series of holes in the fabric of their relationship. But that was over and done with, and he could never be angry at Sherlock.

About his failed marriage, at least.

The consulting detective might have cost him certain things – like a functioning relationship or a lot of nerves – but he wouldn't have it any other way.

Somehow they fit, though in another way like Sherlock and John did.

They needed each other, and not only because he gave Sherlock cases and Sherlock solved them.

They needed each other because –

Because all these years ago, he'd set eyes on a young drug addict, when everything – _everything _pointed against him, and just _known_ the man was innocent.

Later, he'd found out that Mycroft had been out of the country. But he didn't even know then that Sherlock had a brother.

All he'd known when he'd arrived at the Yard on a cold November morning was that a PC had found and arrested a drug addict with a knife in his hand just as he was standing hunched over the stab victim – a known drug dealer.

As far as his colleagues were concerned, the case was closed. Which was probably why he, the most recently promoted DI, had to interrogate the suspect.

As far as Greg was concerned, the case was closed too.

Until he spoke to Sherlock. Or, rather, Sherlock spoke to him.

Percival Adamson had been a drug dealer, alright, and one of the worst sort too – according to his file, he actually sold cocaine and heroin in front of schools. And, moreover, the young drug addict named Sherlock Holmes – Sherlock, he'd thought, what a strange name, for a strange human being – freely admitted that he'd known him.

And then DI Lestrade had opened the door to the interrogation room and stepped in.

Their eyes met.

He still couldn't explain, even after all these years, why he had trusted Sherlock instantly. Why he had felt the need to protect him.

There was just something, some kind of bond –

And it felt right.

Maybe the fact that Greg never really had any close friends had something to do with it.

He'd always been a lone wolf.

Though he wasn't sure he could call him and Sherlock "close" or "friends".

John and Sherlock? Sure.

Him and Sherlock? That was more complicated, and it got only more complicated as time wore on.

No, no, that wasn't right. Ever since Sherlock... jumped and came back three years later, they had most definitely been close. And Friends. And, after his confession that he'd done it for Greg, too, it seemed like they'd always been friends.

But, oh, how well he could remember:

He'd stood there, transfixed, and stared at the young addict, who was dressed in only a T-shirt and a pair of jeans (he hadn't seen Sherlock in clothes like that ever since he got clean), even though it was a cold day, and it was clear that he was homeless.

Greg felt pity for the man and didn't know why.

Then Sherlock said, more to himself than him, "Detective Inspector, recently promoted, married for about three years, parents deceased, no siblings. No close friends apparently either".

His mouth hung open, before he remembered that he was a DI now, and had to appear dignified, and he closed it again.

"I'm sorry?"

"You heard me perfectly well, Inspector; there's no reason to repeat myself in order to answer your rather idiotic and senseless question".

The arrogance of the man fascinated him. Here he was, a murder suspect, homeless, addicted to – he looked at him – he kept wriggling and scratching himself – coke bugs. So, addicted to cocaine then, he'd been arrested at the scene of the murder, knife in hand, and yet –

Yet he was apparently perfectly sure that he would walk out of here in no time.

He looked him in the eyes to see something he wouldn't have expected from this strange individual.

Fascination.

"What were you just thinking?" Sherlock demanded to know.

"Just looking at your withdrawal symptoms and deciding that cocaine is more likely than heroin" Greg replied and shrugged. He used the stunned silence of the man to walk over to the table and sit down opposite him.

"So, Mr Homes"

"Sherlock, please" he interrupted with a wave of his hand.

"God, Sherlock, then – do you know why you are here?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I don't think it needs more than an average intellect to realize why the PC came to the maybe understandable but nonetheless erroneous conclusion that I had anything to do with the murder of Percival Adamson."

"I understand you knew him?" Greg asked, trying to stir the interrogation away from insulting the whole Yard.

"Yes, I did – naturally. He had the best connections."

"You mean he got the best drugs?"

"I didn't say that, Inspector".

So Sherlock Holmes, although he didn't care about his life one bit, apparently, still didn't want to go to jail not even for possession.

Greg was even more intrigued.

"So... what is your explanation for being found at the scene of the crime, with the murder weapon in your hand, hunching over the victim?"

And then, any only then, Sherlock looked –

Embarrassed.

"i was – " he was apparently searching for the right word, and that was something Greg hadn't thought he would see.

"I was curious" he finally finished his sentence, obviously aware of how... strange it sounded.

"Curious. You found a dead man in an alley – a man you knew – and you were curious."

"Correct".

Greg took a deep breath. "Curious of... what, exactly?"

And that seemed to be the right question, because Sherlock started talking.

He didn't really say anything that would prove him innocent, but still, he really started talking.

"I could see immediately that the murderer was left-handed and shorter than him, so much was obvious from the angle of the stab wounds, and there was nail polish residue on the knife, so most likely a woman, and since the nail polish was a bright green, and not many women wear this colour, and I know one of Adamson's clients who fits the description..."

"So you know who killed Percival Adamson" Greg interrupted him, bringing one hand up to his face to rub his temples.

"Why didn't you tell the arresting officer or anyone else at Scotland Yard?"

"No one would listen" Sherlock replies, sounding almost like a petulant child.

"Of course not". Greg leaned back.

And then, just like that, Sherlock proved his innocence, apparently deigning Greg worthy enough to hear it.

"Plus, even in this cold weather, the body couldn't have been dead less than two hours, and you don't think I spent these two hours after I'd killed him hunching over and glaring at him?"

"If that's true, the medical examiner will prove it" Greg answered. At least he hoped so. He had yet to meet the new pathologist – a young woman named Molly Hooper, if he remembered correctly.

"He will" Sherlock responded confidently. Then he looked at Greg. "I suppose you can't let me go until..."

"No, sorry" he answered, and didn't know why he was apologizing, when it was his right to hold Sherlock Holmes for as long as possible.

They were silent for a moment.

And then, though to this day, he couldn't say why, Lestrade asked, "How did you know? About the killer, and –" he swallowed, while Sherlock pierced him once again with his seemingly all-knowing glance, "about me?"

Sherlock just replied "It is obvious" and was silent again, and just when Greg had given up hope –

"Like I said – the wounds on the victim. Their angle. And the nail polish resiude on the knife. Really, it was rather simple. Though it was certainly stimulating.

You – well, that was more interesting.

You keep your badge in the inner left hand pocket of your coat" – and here, Greg reached for it, unconsciously, and Sherlock smirked, "and this is, of course, the side of the heart. You could just put it in the outer right-hand pocket – which would be more convenient, since you are right-handed... But you chose to keep it "close to your heart" as the saying goes, so you're most likely recently promoted. And they wouldn't send anyone less than an Inspector to a murder inquiry – though, again, they'd probably send for the most recently promoted.

I can see by the state of your wedding ring – it's polished, but worn – that you're married for at least three years.

Oh, and – I can see the bulge your wallet makes in your coat. It's not thick enough to include various photos, so most likely just one of your wife. And friends? You come here, on a November morning, when you are actually not supposed to be on duty – I heard the PCs talk about it, and that's not cheating, that's observing – so you have nothing better to do. Obvious".

Greg could have said a lot after this.

He could have been angry.

He wasn't.

Instead, he asked the first thing that came to his mind.

"How does someone like you end up on the streets?"

Sherlock was taken aback.

"What?"

"You heard me. The way you talk – you're obviously well-educated. And you're smart. So – how did you end up addicted to drugs and living on the streets?"

It was the first, and actually, now that he thought about it, the last time, that he'd seen Sherlock Holmes truly speechless.

Then, a PC – later known as DI Dimmock – opened the door and told Lestrade that the forensic tech, Anderson, had found something, so he left Sherlock still staring into space.

By the next morning, the autopsy had revealed that Sherlock couldn't have killed Percival Adamson, and Greg watched him set free.

"Is there any chance" he asked, when he led Sherlock out of the building, "that you are not going to run to the next dealer and get high?"

Sherlock looked like he wanted to say something cynical, then thought the better of it.

"No, I don't think so".

"Didn't expect anything different" Greg answered. Then he put ten pounds into Sherlock's hands, who raised an eyebrow.

"Is there any way I can reach you?" Greg asked, slightly embarrassed. "You know, just to tell you you were wrong once we catch the killer?"

Sherlock actually smiled at this and told him that he could usually be found at a certain street corner, where Greg went once he'd been proven right.

He was there, still freezing, apparently. And high. Of course.

"Sherlock..."

"Ah, DI Lestrade. I'm afraid there is no body in the vicinity, and there are certainly no drugs on me, so you can't arrest me" Sherlock replied, with his usual arrogance.

"On you, perhaps not, but I'd hate to see what you got into you since we parted ways".

Sherlock seemed to grow impatient - apparently he wasn't used to banter, back then, and now, and then, Greg wished he'd still come to the point as quickly as then."Well, Lestrade – what do you want?"

Greg took a deep breath – he knew what he wanted to say, but it didn't make it any easier. "You were right. About the killer".

"Of course".

"What I want to say is – " his gaze swept over the shady stre0et corner, the other drug addicts, the broken street lamp, before settling back on Sherlock "We could use someone like you. As a – consultant, of sorts, if you want. We'd never have figured out who the killer was as quickly as you did. But..."

Sherlock eyes had started to glitter as soon as he heard what Greg wanted, but then he turned away. "I would have to get clean."

"Yes, you would."

"That is – " and Greg was prepared for a denial, but then Sherlock seems to look around too, and he shuddered. Just once. Then he said, "I'll think about it".

"Good. That's good". Greg cleared his throat. "You know where to find me."

And find him he did. Six months later, even paler, even thinner, but clean.

And ever since then they'd worked together – first out of respect, then out of friendship.

Which was probably why Greg didn't react as badly as John when Sherlock decided to reappear after three years of mourning for the consulting detective.

John had thrown him out of his new flat, Greg had offered him the couch.

Because, in a way, Sherlock was still the first friend he'd ever had, and most of his other friends – John, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, probably even Mycroft and Mike Stamford – had only come into his life because of his connection with the consulting detective.

It was then that Sherlock had explained everything.

Like how Greg was one of the three people he pretended to commit suicide for.

He wouldn't admit it, but he had never been so touched in his life.

And, maybe because of the three nights Sherlock had spent in his flat, or because of the fact that he'd seen him as a drug addict, or maybe because he just got Sherlock in a different was than John did –

He knew why he hadn't been so happy about the new case. He knew why he'd disappeared after solving it.

Four drug addicts, all killed using an overdose of their favourite drug, left in the street to die. No missing person reports had been filled, because nobody missed them.

And Greg knew what Sherlock saw.

Himself, if he had taken the other road.

Himself, if he had never got clean.

In a way – Greg doesn't even want to think about where he'd be without Sherlock. Friendless, definitely.

And John? John would probably be broken, cold, lost, somewhere in London.

And if even Greg didn't like the thought –

Sherlock must really hate it.

So he mused, while he was climbing the stairs of the roof of St Bart's. It was the one place John wouldn't look for him, because it was the one place John didn't want to look.

Sherlock was smoking – of course. It was after all a danger night.

"Greg" he said, without turning around. He'd been "Greg" ever since Sherlock came back, and he didn't question it. In fact he rather liked it.

"Sherlock" he answered.

"Fancy a smoke?"

"No thanks – I'm still proud I quit, other than... some people. I like to breathe clean air, nowadays."

"Breathing's boring" Sherlock responded and blew out a perfect smoke ring.

"Of course it is." Greg stood beside Sherlock and looked over London.

"Sherlock – "

"I know, Greg. Please don't tell me I don't have to think about it, because I got clean and, God knows, I did enough bad things in my life I could think about instead of wondering "what if"".

"I was actually going to say, "You'll always think about it, but at least you made it, and we're here, and I definitely like this version of you better". Bad things and all".

Sherlock chuckled and looked at Greg.

"Well, then. Now that we have cleared that up, you're sure you don't want a cigarette?"

"Oh, bloody hell" Greg sighed, "But just one".

So they stood there, just two friends smoking on a roof looking over the city they lived in and loved.

And no matter what the future might bring –

They were sure about their past.

And that was something.

**Author's note: I realized that I'd never really explained how Lestrade and Sherlock met – just a few throwaway lines, at the best. So here is a whole back story. And a Reichenbach one. And "Lestrade comforts Sherlock" one too, because – it came to me. **

**Oh, and I wanted to write a longer oneshot once again. Mission accomplished, I would say.**

**I hope you liked it, please review.**


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